


cherry //

by steponmeasra



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, First Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Kink, Masturbation, Rough Sex, Secret Crush, Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Tension, Spice, Spicy Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29252352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steponmeasra/pseuds/steponmeasra
Summary: M!Asra X F!Reader, College AU Roommates to Lovers.You fall in love with your enigmatic, confusing, infuriating college roommate, Asra.
Relationships: Asra (The Arcana)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	1. Blue Jeans — Reader POV

**Author's Note:**

> Request: "asra and mc being roomates in college! friends to lovers au 👀"  
> Oh man oh man, this one really got me right in the honey nut feelios, lemme tell ya. Thank you for catapulting my whole heart and ass into both love and also lust 😍😭 My brain said headcanon but my heart said DAMN NEAR WHOLE ASS FIC. I hope you got your reading pants on, cause this is a looong long ride...

Asra’s that guy. Always casual, relaxed, skateboarding around campus or napping under a tree with his oversized headphones on. Nice to everyone, but belongs to no one friend group. Seems to have no real class schedule, always a bit of a mess in a lazy-cute kind of way. No one really knows anything about him, but his tanned skin, dimpled cheeks, and pale lilac mop of hair are impossible not to be drawn into. He’s that cool guy, with better, more obscure taste in movies and music and literature than anyone else. That weird, cool guy.

When you see the post, roommate wanted, it’s a tiny, run down cottage in the old neighborhood across from campus. It looks cute, and homey, a quaint two bedroom with succulents in the window and wildflowers flourishing in the sidewalk cracks. You can afford it, if nothing else. But you are not prepared for who answers the door when you come knocking.

You’d only spoken over text, you didn’t realize this was that guy. That you could be living with that guy. And you feel very uncool and very green and very unsure, but he’s so friendly, and so bouncy, and he laughs easily and you’re suddenly shocked at how comfortable you feel. He feels warm, and goofy, and you decide that yes, you’d like to stay.

Somehow, you become inseparable almost right away. He always prepares a mug of tea for you alongside his own, and invites you to join him when he’s sprawled haphazardly on the couch watching a movie. He comes home from the grocery store with a little potted cactus, and tells you the tiny pink bloom reminded him of you. He is warm.

And it’s impossible to deny that he is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous guy you’ve ever seen. He smells like citrus and sandlewood, he falls asleep on the couch in only a pair of low-slung plaid pajama pants, he trips over his own feet and blushes up to his ears when you catch him drinking straight from the carton of orange juice, again. When you fall asleep next to each other laughing late at night, or squeeze into the last leg of room on a crowded subway car, you’re sure he can hear how hard your heart is pounding. You know you’re not his type but he’s so close and you can’t help that he’s making you fall in love with him— And sometimes it’s hard. Hard to look at him. Hard to sit next to him like you’re content with what you are, his best friend, not his girlfriend. Hard not to kiss him, hard not to be crushed knowing you’re pining hopelessly after a boy who will never love you like that.

You’re inseparable, you wouldn’t have it any other way. He plays you his favorite records for hours on end while you paint each other’s nails, you can’t apply a face mask without his wide eyes peeping around the corner in a silent request, I want some too. You cook together, you shop together, you share clothes and hold hands so it’s just hard sometimes.

And when he looks at you it’s with so much tenderness and adoration, and sometimes a sly little smirk you can’t quite place, and every now and again he blushes out of the blue and looks away, he melts your heart and its killing you.

Asra’s one semi-consistent house guest, a fellow called Julian, is the first punk-goth med student you’ve ever met, and always shows up either belligerently exhausted, or belligerently drunk. He keeps referring to you as Asra’s girlfriend, and for some reason Asra never corrects him.

One evening you’re rifling through Asra’s dresser drawers looking for your favorite shirt to sleep in, and you stumble across what you immediately recognise as your favorite pair of panties—tiny, lacy, baby pink. Mortified, you swear to pay more attention when sorting the laundry.

Sometimes when the two of you stay in and have a few drinks, you find yourself feeling bolder and less controlled. You let your hands move more freely across his shoulders and arms, you press yourself closer, even allow yourself to flirt a little bit—he eyes get wider and his blush gets brighter the longer you go on. Eventually he finds an excuse to disappear into his room, and the next morning you’re grateful he’s too kind to mention it.

Sometimes his eyes lock with yours as he licks a stray drop of cherry juice off his finger, or his grin turns mischievous when he beckons you to snuggle up to him on the couch with your back to his chest. He has many pet names for you, some funny, some impossibly sweet, but sometimes he calls you kitten and seems all too delighted by how flustered you become, almost like he knows how wet it makes you.

One day Asra bounds into your room to chat while you get ready to go to dinner—"Hey, kitten!—and plops down on your bed. From the corner of your eye you see him stop, and then crane his gaze towards your top drawer, which you realize with horror you have stupidly left lying open. You whirl around as his eyes land on its contents, your beloved magic wand, a glass cock, a shiny metal plug adorned with a sparkling pink crystal, and the long abandoned silk blindfold and leather wrist cuffs. Before you can force an explanation out of your mouth, Asra turns to you with a quirked brow, eyes fiery and bright below heavy lids.

“Why, _kitten_ ,” he purrs with a smirk like a fox that’s just cornered a trembling rabbit.

You always feel guilty thinking of him when you touch yourself, you know it’s perverse to pretend the toy inside you is his cock, you know it’s depraved that you can’t help but sigh his name when you cum—of course it’s sick, he’s your best friend—but the way he looks at you when he sees the sordid collection at your bedside has you gasping, and at dinner you can’t sit still, intently aware of how cold the air feels on the soaking wet fabric of your panties. That night you replay it in your mind over and over, three fingers deep, toes curling, imagining him saying it while he fucks you from behind, pounding your g-spot until you’re squirting cum down your wrist, soaking through the sheets, too lost to know if you’re screaming his name in your head or out loud. If he hears you from across the hall, he never mentions it.

You know, realistically, logically, the tension you sometimes feel between you is your fault, imagined, no matter how much you wish it was the crackling of shared desire. You wonder if this new spark in his eye is cruel, he plays like he’s flirting, he wouldn’t tease you so meanly, would he? The Asra you love would never be be so heartless as to poke fun at a girl so clearly besotted. But why else flirt so shamelessly with a girl so hopelessly in love?

When you buy tickets to a show, you buy two, like you always do. The night of, he looks magnificent, ethereal, glitter cascading off of him, skin glowing, lips flushed, he’s a spectacle under the neon lights as the band plays and the bass throbs. His dancing is serpentine, languid and inviting, he pulls you closer and you both flow with the heavy pulsating beat of the music. For a second you get just too lost in the sparkle in his eyes, the way the pinks and greens of the light show bounce off his jaw, his collarbones, his lips, your hunger makes you lean in all too close—and you catch yourself at the exact second he dips his chin and lowers his head to meet your kiss halfway. You hesitate, confused and nervous and confused, very confused, and your eyes dart up to his in question.

_Do you know what you’re doing? Do you want this? Do you mean it?_

He looks back at you, Asra. Your Asra. Warm, soft, beguiling, inviting. Your hand moves to cradle his jaw as your eyes drift closed, and you close the gap between you.

His lips and tongue are soft and yielding where the heat of his kiss is not. His hands come to your hips, your waist, your neck, your hair, he breathes you in and moans into your mouth. He kisses you like you are the air he needs to live. You feel the desperation and the relief as finally, finally, you kiss him.


	2. Video Games — Asra POV

Asra isn’t used to feeling like this. It’s not that he doesn’t like letting people in, or getting close to them, he just… Values his alone time. His independence. He likes doing what he wants, when he wants, and never having to ask for permission. He likes being alone. But somehow, now, it’s… Different?

He likes her right away. She’s shy at first, but when she gets comfortable, she’s a spitfire, and unique, and unabashadly weird. She likes his music, she wants to learn new things, and the first thing she says when she meets Faust is how cute she thinks she is. He knew right then they’d get along. But it’s… It’s just different now.

He can’t stop thinking about her all the time. He sees a particularly crunchy leaf on the sidewalk and pictures how much she’d like jumping on it. He memories her favorite snacks, and how she likes her coffee. Even though they’re already attached at the hip, and sometimes he feels the pull of his quiet room, once he gets there, he misses her. Suddenly impromptu midnight drives and long afternoons at the record store just aren’t that fun if she isn’t there with him.

And then there’s all the _other_ ways he’s thinking about her all the time.

He can’t help but notice that her legs go on for miles, and she looks so cute when she wears his oversized scarfs, and her bottom lip is so full… He’s not sure if he wants to kiss it or bite it. He’d never tell her to stop wearing loose, flowy tank tops around the house, but her cleavage is ample, and looks so soft, just begging to be touched. Sometimes he can’t think straight. He catches himself staring at her and thinking about things he feels like he shouldn’t be, like how his hips would feel smacking against hers and what she sounds like when she cums.

He figures the flirtation is his imagination, she’s the sweetest person he’s ever known, and his best friend, his favorite person in the world. He might be falling for her, scratch that, has definitely already fallen hard. But it isn’t worth risking what they have. So he’ll suffer in silence. He’ll settle for having her as close as he can, doing everything he can to make her happy, daydreaming about the kind of dates he would take her on, and furiously jacking off when he takes his morning showers. He’ll keep his cool.

But God, she is _saucy_ sometimes. She likes to take him out to punk bars and goth nights, and wear these tiny little dresses with fishnets and boots… It makes him wild. It makes him wonder. He thinks he might try anything she’d want to do.

And then there are nights she gets a bit looser, and a lot flirtier, and he can take it for a while, can push it back for a while, but then she’ll lick her lips and say his name—and he’s done. He has to retreat and replay that sound in his mind over and over while he lays in bed, thinking of how she’d sound moaning his name instead, roughly handling himself to a messy finish.

She’s not one to blush, and she’s so brash and bold, but she gets nervous with him sometimes. And he can only assume he’s letting his facade slip, coming on too strong, scaring her off. And he can’t stand the thought of it. He’s careful, so so careful, to be only sweet, only caring, not let her see how he looks at her. He can’t lose her. He’s determined not to.

She’s so beautiful. Soft and thoughtful and funny, rib-cracking kind of funny, and different than anyone he’s ever known. She’s so good to him. She tells him daily how much she appreciates him, how much fun she has with him, how glad she is that she met him. He can’t imagine his world without her at the center of it. He’d do anything for her. He wants a life with her.

He wants to be soft and sweet with her, brush her hair and cook her breakfasts, but _God_ does he want to fuck her. He wants to taste her, he wants to feel her all around him and pleasure her until her legs shake. Then one day when he passes her room he sees the tiniest, most scandalous pair of panties discarded amidst the mess on the floor. She’s isn’t home, so he reasons he’ll just take a peak. Tiny, soft, lacy—he isn’t proud of what he does next but he just can’t help himself. The thought of her wearing these, wearing these for _him_ … His head is spinning. He rubs the soft silky material between his fingers, almost panting, holds them to his nose and groans, _God he wants to taste her_ , wraps them tightly around his shaft as he strokes it. He cums hard enough to see stars, and then a wave of shame washes over him, and he shoves them in the back of a drawer, out of sight and out of mind. He scolds himself for days. His best friend, and he thinks of her like this? And yet… He can’t help but think of those panties over and over again.

Sometimes he could swear she was flirting with him. He knows he’s kidding himself, but he catches a glimpse of her bedside drawer and in his excitement he can’t help but tease her just a little bit, and she actually _blushes_. He’s never seen her blush before. He’s never seen her eyes go wide while she bites her lip like that. He knows, he _knows_ , she’s not looking at him how he wishes she was, but fuck, something is there behind her gaze. Something smoldering. It makes his hands shake and his face hot to the touch. She can’t be thinking of him using those toys on her, right? No matter how much he wishes she was.

She’s his whole world. His first love, he’s stopped trying to deny it. And right then, he could swear she was about to lean in to kiss him. He doesn’t think, he just let’s himself be pulled into her orbit, like always. And she stops just short to look at him questioningly, as if to ask if this is okay. He wants to scream, he wants to sing, yes, _yes_ , nothing could ever be more right, please, _please_ kiss me. He’d have begged for her lips if she hadn’t closed the distance between them then.

The spend hours talking that night. Explaining to each other, laughing until they can’t breathe. How could they both be so clueless? Teasing each other, lovingly, for being too stubborn to see what was right in front of them. Asra feels so warm, like he’s floating, like he’s invincible. There’s so much bubbling up, he’s been stifling it for so long, he knows it’s soon but he can’t help it—

“I love you. Do you know that?” Her eyes light up, her smile stretches impossibly. “And I want to kiss you again.”

Just as their lips brush, she answers with the words that break him in two, “I love you, Asra.”


	3. Honeymoon — Reader POV

That feeling when you know you should be focusing on your work, or the dish you’re preparing, or the song you’re listening to, but your mind keeps drifting back to them. And every time your stomach does a little nervous jolt, a little jump of excitement and disbelief. You can’t believe they chose you. 

The summer is hot on your heels, the trees growing heavier with greenery every day. The light is changing from grey to gold. You walk home from campus hand in hand with Asra and watch the way the light bounces off his fluffy curls, peach and champagne and lilac. The sun deepens the smattering of freckles on his nose, cheeks, shoulders, chest. “The sun must love you,” you tell him, “she’s given you so many kisses. He blushes and looks away, that enigmatic grin, those soft eyes. 

You love to see his blush spread from the height of his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. He still blushes for you, still becomes bashful and looks down at his hands or up into the clouds while carding his hand through his hair. Often it’s your compliments that embarrass him, so you make sure to shower him with praise often and well. You want him to see himself the way you see him, to feel as excruciatingly beautiful and lovely as he is, to know and take pride in the infinite talents he possesses. You remind him of his innate kindness and compassion. You rub his back at the end of the day and tell him how many smiles he is the cause of, how much love he inspires with his gentle hands and warm words. You tickle him until he admits how talented of an artist he is, how dedicated a partner he is. You love him softly, but insistently. You are determined to water him and watch him grow. 

Almost every breath you exhale is followed by an I love you. It’s too easy with him, it begs to be said every moment. Every time you feel it, you say it. You ask him sometimes, Is it too much? Is it overwhelming? Annoying, even? You say it so constantly. But every time, he answers in kind. “How could I ever tire of hearing you say those words?” he asks in between kisses. “I feel like I waited a lifetime to hear them. I love you, too.“ 

You shower together. You love a hot shower before bed to wash reality off your skin before drifting to sleep, and Asra, usually one for morning showers, is only won over when you introduce him to your nightly routine: your favorite music floating through the foggy room, and a cold drink in your warm hand. You stand together under the spray languidly running your hands over each other, giggling into your chilled glasses of wine or beer at the way your bodies slip and slide easily against the other. Asra is so beautiful in the dim, soft light, skin shining and eyes closed. You kiss him and run your tongue over his wet lips. “I used to imagine this,” he whispers into your kiss. “Every morning in the shower, I couldn’t help but replay all the ways I’d dreamt about you the night before.“ 

“Show me.” Your request is soft, barely above a whisper, but he moans into mouth and threads one hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper as his other hand moves down his chest to grip his shaft, already half hard. Your mouth catches his sighs and groans as he strokes himself, he cries your name, almost a pained sound, when he cums. 

Asra isn’t nervous to ask you about the leather cuffs in your bedside drawer, but you’re nervous to answer. He’s your best friend, your world, you love him and trust him with your whole heart, but there’s a snag in the back of your mind, _Good, nice girls don’t want those kind of nasty things._ You worry the dark, dirty parts of yourself will sully his clean, gentle hands. But when he kneels over you and secures your wrists to the headboard, humming in appreciation at the sight of you prone for him, your mind goes blank. “You remember your words?” he asks, a little breathlessly, as he moves down your body and between your legs. You nod emphatically. Yellow to pause, red to stop entirely. “Good girl,” he cooes, right before his mouth finds your slit and your eyes snap shut at the feeling. You forget everything as he makes you cum again and again. The feeling of him so deep inside you, your knees to your chest and your cuffed hands gripping the headboard for dear life, it makes you dizzy and you moan his name over and over to the sound of his hips slapping against you. When you’re good and spent, he uncuffs you and covers your body with his while he whispers how much he loves you, how well you did, how good you are for him. You decide nothing so heavenly could ever be a sin. 

Though you’re hardly apart, you miss each other during the brief, rude interruptions to your shared bliss. Your phone is a mess of the things he sends you throughout the day, memes and video compilations and songs he says make him think of you. A link to an article he thinks you’ll enjoy, a text about a new gallery opening he wants to take you to. And you respond in kind, telling him about a new highlighter at Sephora you know he’d love, cute dogs you see on campus, reminders of how pretty he looked asleep in bed this morning, a string of TikToks that made you burst into laughter during a lecture. He begs you daily to send him a photo or two of you _, I miss your beautiful face,_ followed by a string of at least six emojis. You oblige him, your phone erupting with chirp after chirp as he bombards you with compliments, emojis and gifs and memes of heart-eyed cartoons and swooning silver screen stars. Even in his silliness, he’s love-drunk for you. 

Being that he loves to tease you, your phone is no exception. If you complain about a boring class, he might just find an excuse to send you a few ideas for what he’d like to do to you when you get home. If he doesn’t think he’s flustered you enough, he’ll ditch campus for the day and opt instead to send you the most salacious photos and videos of his activities at home in your shared bed. Always considerate, he warns you which video snippets you’ll want to have your headphones in for. When you open the video, your jaw drops. On screen, you see Asra’s cock twitching in his grip, cum spilling in thick streams down his hand, smeared over his shaft as his palm continues working himself while he moans your name. His loud, wanton moans on screen make your mouth water. Once or twice when he’s feeling particularly hungry for you, Asra’s name will light up your phone with a text message in warning, For your eyes only ;). Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull at the photo that follows. Asra, his tanned skin glistening, back arched as he looks over his shoulder into the camera, brows knit and mouth open in an obvious groan, camera perfectly angled to showcase the purple dildo his other hand is pumping into his ass. You stare long enough to catch yourself drooling, before hurriedly gathering your things and rushing home. 

The two of you can hardly focus on anything besides each other, you need the other closer, closer, always. You’re trying to study in a quiet corner of the library, but Asra’s fingers draw rhythmic circles on your inner thigh. He leans in until his lips are brushing your ear, “You’re doing that just to drive me crazy, aren’t you?” He taps your pen with one finger, and you realize he means the way the tip of it keeps absentmindedly finding its way between your teeth. His hand rises and slips under your skirt as you blush. You try to keep quiet when he slips his fingers inside you—"Already wet for me, kitten?“—so you don’t draw attention from the other tired students around you. You whine his name under your breath and he smirks. You think he likes the idea of getting caught. 

The sounds he makes when you take him in your mouth drive you mad, they make your vision blurry with all the heat building in you. He tastes sweet but salty like sea air, he doesn’t hold back his moans or bother trying to still his hips. "God, your mouth, baby,” he groans loudly. “Your tongue is like velvet—fuck.” He’s surprised the first time you pull your lips off of him with a soft pop, a string of saliva trailing from his tip to your lips while your hand pumps him, and you tell him to cum on your face. Surprised, but only for a second before he processes what you just said and throws his head back, body tensing, crying your name as his cum splatters across your mouth, your cheeks, your nose, your jaw. When he finally stills, he pulls you to him and kisses you ferociously, eyes wild as he licks a trail of his cum off your chin and sloppily circles your tongue with his. He loves how turned on you are by being marked by him. Marked as his.

And God, does he love marking you, too. One day he bends you roughly over the couch, lifting your dress and sliding your panties down your legs. Soaked as they are, he pockets them—you’ve only just recently noticed his penchant for this—and fucks you hard enough, deep enough, that little tears bloom in your eyes when you scream your orgasm. He plants a kiss between your shoulder blades while you catch your breath and tells you, “Let’s go pick up dinner.” Asra plants a light smack on your ass and pulls your dress back down, but doesn’t return your panties. You’re flushed down to your chest as you stand hand in hand in line at the grocery store, hair mussed, makeup smeared, Asra’s cum dripping visibly down the inside of your thigh. His smug grin is as blinding as the sun. 

He’s so eager to learn every detail of your body, to coax every desire and reaction out of hiding. He loves the way your legs shake like a newborn fawn’s after he fucks you, how dizzy with pleasure you are that you’re often unable to move or speak in more than slurred, grinning nonsense when he’s done with you. The first time that he makes you cum so hard that you cry, he’s panicked and apologetic until you assure him that not only are you not hurt, you couldn’t be better—the pleasure is simply too intense, like a wave that overtakes you until you’re drowning in it, blissfully tumbling through the overwhelming sensation. 

Once he’s sure they aren’t tears of anguish, but tears of immense pleasure, he can’t help the way seeing you cry as you cum over and over affects him. He pounds into you with your vibrator pressed firmly against your clit, the toy’s heavy, insistent throbbing coupled with the way his hard cock stretches has you delirious and sobbing, begging him not to stop through thick, choked gasps. “You look so fucking pretty when you cry, baby,” he moans. 

Every time you think he might be horrified by the things you want him to do to you, he surprises you with a sultry stare, and never ceases to tease you. “Please,” you had begged brokenly while he fucked you, taking his wrist in your hand and bringing it to rest over your throat. Your eyes explore his face, waiting to see disgust. But you aren’t kept waiting for long. 

His fingers squeeze deliciously around the sides of your neck, his thrusts slowing but deepening. Your eyes roll back in your head as he purrs, “Like this, kitten?” God, you could cum from the sound of his voice alone—but the feeling of him heavy and hard inside you, his hand on your throat, making you dizzy, making your legs shake as your own wetness starts to drip down his shaft and onto your thighs. His grip softens for just a moment as he orders you to look at him, to look into his eyes when you cum. Here, like this, Asra’s gaze is hooded, intense, predatory. He looks like he wants to eat you alive. “Cum on my cock,” he orders with enough authority that it makes your stomach clench. His grip on your neck tightens, your head goes fuzzy as he fucks you, rocks in and out of you hard, and you scream his name when your pussy clenches down on him hard enough to still his movements, your cum spilling in a hot rush of wetness all over the two of you. 

Asra knows his words wreck you. He knows you love the dirty things he says that validate you and make you feel whole, loved, accepted. How he can fill such filthy words with so much love and devotion, you can never know. “I love making you cum so hard that you squirt,” he hums lowly into your neck, still pumping lazily into you after he cums. You bury your flaming red cheeks in his collar and roll your hips up against his. You can feel him hardening inside you at his own words. “You make me crazy,” he moans. 

You sleep curled around each other, some nights blasting the AC as the winding spring days turn into hot nights that leave you both a sweaty mess stuck together under the sheets. Many nights you’re softly jostled from sleep by Asra sweet voice whispering, “Roll over for me, baby.” You hear the sound of him wetting his fingers as you roll onto your stomach, seconds before his weight settles behind you and he sinks deep into you with one thrust, groaning low in the pitch blackness of your shared bedroom. In the darkness with only the sounds of your fucking, he feels impossibly closer, and you quickly fall into a lazy climax. Your mind drifts in and out of sleep, in and out of his groans in your ear as he cums and then falls asleep still inside you. 

Your shared mornings are soft, sweet, butter lemon yellow light on your sleepy limbs as you both struggle to shake the sleep from your eyes and take turns stirring the pancake batter, flipping the bacon. You giggle through his kisses on your neck, his hands hungry and eager to distract you from your work. The both of you smile into the kiss and feed the other small bites of food, foreheads resting together as you lean against the counter. It’s like nothing else exists when you’re here with him, your Asra, your heart. 

It’s impossible not to want to give him everything, all your time, your love, your energy. You smile at him and he smiles back. “Sometimes I love you so much that I feel like my body is too small to hold it all,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. He brushes barely there kisses under your ear, feeling your pulse jump. “It feels like my body’s too small to hold it all. Sometimes I think I might explode." 

Asra smiles and pulls back to look at you lovingly. "And if I told you I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, would that make this, uh, exploding feeling—would that make it better, or worse?” He peeks up at you hopefully through his eyelashes, his tone playful where his meaning is heady and serious. 

You’re melting for him, soft and warm and lost in the gentle promise he makes to you, to your heart. “You are my life,” you answer him truthfully. “I want everything in the world with you." 

He hears the unspoken promise in your words and feels his breath catch. "Everything?” Someday, a paper, an officiate. The sweetness and excitement passes between you quietly, as softly as falling snow. As easily as breathing. 

“Everything, with you, Asra." 


End file.
